And Now to Bed . . . ?

With the clock nearing 10 o'clock last night, I told myself, "It's time for bed." As I got ready to retire for the night, my bowels said, "Not so fast, Bucko, we've got some business to take care of." Once my big butt was out of the wheelchair and properly positioned on the commode, I got to work on one of the crossword puzzles stashed nearby. Twenty minutes later, the puzzle was done, and the bowels hadn't done shit. For the next fifteen minutes, the bowels received my undivided attention. I might as well have done another crossword puzzle.

Satisfied with their little joke, the bowels were now quiet. My gut now undisturbed and my eyelids getting heavy, the time had come to get off the pot and into bed. That would require getting myself from the commode to the wheelchair, and that proved to be a problem. Getting my arse off the commode wasn't difficult, getting it on to the chair was another story.

I gripped the chair's armrests, pulled myself toward the wheelchair, got my backside off the toilet, and pivoted in order to get the butt aligned with the chair. Alas, my legs were not up to the task. As soon as the old gluteus maximus got between the toilet and the chair, the legs faltered, and the butt began sinking. My arms, getting absolutely no help from the legs, were not able to stop my slow descent to the floor, and, as a result, I got wedged between the toilet and the wheelchair. On the plus side, I was able to reach the chair's controls and move it back. When I did, I ended up lying on my side, with my head against the laundry hamper. Once I got my legs sorta untangled and sorta stretched out, and my pants up far enough to avoid embarrassing myself and others, I was about as comfortable as I could be given the circumstances.

I pressed the button on the I've-fallen-and-can't-get-up pendant Covenant Woods gives each resident. In a few moments, John, the night security guy, was in the apartment, standing over me and assessing my plight. Given the lack of space in the small bathroom and my inability to be of any help, he opted to call for EMTs to get me back in the wheelchair. 

Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door and four EMTs entered my humble abode. One came in the bathroom to take look and figure out the best way to get me off the floor and back on to the wheelchair. "Here, hold on to my arms," he said. He got a hold of me as best he could, and with me clutching his arms, he lifted me off the floor. A second EMT came in the bathroom to help, and then a third. It was a struggle, but they managed to get me back on the chair. They asked me several times if I was hurt (I wasn't) and if I needed any more help (I didn't). I thanked them for their help, and they went on their way.

They were hardly out the door when I started asking myself if I had been too hasty when I told them I didn't need additional help. But I managed to get up from the wheelchair and on to the bed without incident.                                                                                   

An Uneventfully Eventful Thursday

Thursday morning, I made my weekly trip to Publix. This week, in addition to the groceries, I needed to have a prescription filled. When I picked it up, the woman behind the counter said, "Your insurance doesn't cover this. It's normally $168.34, but we're giving you a discount: it will be $37.85."

I paid, well, I promised to pay the credit card company the $37.85 and proceeded to Check Out Lane 4 to pay for the groceries. I didn't pay much attention to the clerk ringing up my haul; my mind was on drugs. Giving a guy in a wheelchair a discount is a wonderful thing, but a 75% discount? Come on. The woman had to be joking about the actual cost. But if she was, that smile, that goofy grin which should have shot across her face when she saw the relief come across mine wasn't there.

Back in my apartment, I looked at all the information that came with the small bottle of bills. It showed the price at $37.85, there was nothing about how much the insurance paid, and there was no mention of Publix Pharmacy's generous discount. Thirty days from now I'll need to have the script refilled. What will the price be then? One hundred sixty-eight dollars, or thirty-eight dollars? I'll let you know in a month.

Long about one o'clock that afternoon, as I was headed outside, my next-door neighbor was coming in. "How did you like the Christmas card?" she asked.

"What Christmas card?"

"The one I put on your door."

"There wasn't a Christmas card on my door."

"I'm sure I put one there. I walked all over the building last night, taping Christmas cards on my friends' doors. Maybe I missed you. I was awfully tired."

"Well, thank you so much. I really do appreciate the gesture. It's so nice to have friends."

"Don't worry," she said. "You're going to get a card from me."

An hour or so later, hungry for a cookie, I set out for the Nook. Going out my door, I noticed an envelope taped on it. It was the card my neighbor promised me. Then, as I was on my way down the long hallway after supper, another woman who lives a few doors down from me handed me a card.

"How nice. Thank you," I said.

"Oh, that's not from me. Someone put it in my box by mistake."

When I opened the card, I discovered it was from my next-door neighbor. From no card to two cards in just a few hours. When I saw my neighbor Friday morning, I thanked her for both cards.

"Both cards?"

"Yea, the one you put on my door yesterday afternoon. And on my way back from supper last night, Ruth gave me a card. She said someone must have put in her box by mistake."

"I didn't put any cards in the boxes. I probably dropped it, and someone spotted it on the floor and put it in the wrong box by mistake."

Thursday evening, after watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, I started reading The Book of Lies, by Brad Meltzer. I got the book from the library here at the old-folks home, hoping to find a book I could get lost in. When I got to page 18, The Book of Lies took me to a very familiar place: the Conneaut Community Arts Center on a Thursday morning eight or ten years ago.

Chapter Three begins:
"'Cal . . . I need help!' Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it's worth it."

In the Arts Center, at our weekly class, eight of us are seated around a table listening to Suzanne Byerly, our teacher, read from the things we wrote. Inevitably, somewhere in our scribblings, there is an exclamation point. When she reaches it, Suzanne stops, looks at the person who wrote the piece and says, "You do know, we're each allotted just three exclamation points in our lives."

The writing class was an outstanding experience, and I am indebted to Mary Lewis for getting me involved in it. Suzanne was a wise and wonderful teacher, and the others in the class were all friendly, helpful, encouraging, and great company. I can't thank Mr. Meltzer enough for taking me back there for a few minutes Thursday night.

Blasts from the Past

I sit down at the computer every day, sit there for hours, accomplishing nothing most days, and less than nothing the other days. It has been months, many more than a few months since I've sat down to write and actually written. With that in mind, I have resolved to write at least 250 words a day.

At least 250 Words a Day

There, that takes care of today.

*                    *                    *

Every now and then I'll hear something that sounds out of place. Not out of place in terms of propriety, but out of place in terms of time. A word of phrase that wouldn't have stirred the least bit of curiosity or garnered the smallest bit of my attention fifty or sixty years ago.  In 2019, though, the words are fascinating relics of the past.

At dinner, one evening a month or two ago, Dee Dee, our server, was singing softly as she cleared some dirty dishes from the table. I thought I recognized the song. "Nah, she's too young," I told myself, "She's never even heard that song." But, I had to know for sure, and when she brought us dessert, I asked if she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera." "Yes," she said. "I really like that song."

I can't say, "I really like that song." But it was unavoidable in the mid-50s and early 60s. In addition to the DJs sending it our way at every opportunity, Dad picked up the sheet music on his way home one night so Mom could play it on our organ. As a result, the moment Dee Dee said she had been singing "Que Sera, Sera", the song became my constant companion for the next three days.

When I was just a little girl

I asked my mother, what will I be

Will I be pretty

Will I be rich

Here's what she said to me

Que será, será

Whatever will be, will be

The future's not ours to see

Que será, será

What will be, will be

The lyrics moved into my brain. Over and over, repeating and repeating, ad infinitum, they pushed everything else out of my brain - not that there is ever much in my brain. Alone in my apartment, I sang "Que Sera, Sera" over and over again. The neighbors never complained, but they're all hard of hearing and probably couldn't hear me. 

It wasn't long afterward that Doris Day died. Did my singing do her in? Quite possibly.

 A week or two after getting back to 2019, my mind found itself wondering what decade it was again. After a morning ride through the parking lots, I was about to go inside but stopped to allow two women to come out. A middle-aged lady came out first. The moment she passed from the air-conditioned lobby into the Georgia sunshine, she said, "Mom, it's awfully hot out here."

Mom took two steps into the outdoors before issuing an emphatic "Aye yigh yigh!"

"Aye yigh yigh," where did that come from? From several decades past, that's where. At least, it's been more than a few years since I'd heard anyone say those words. Strange.

The Wood Bee

The blimp-like wood bee

Buzzes, hovers, rises, falls,

Darts away,

And returns

To buzz, hover, rise, and fall,

Before crawling back into the fence.

Skirting the Issue

          Often, despite a slew of more important things to do, I squander an hour on the web perusing lists of sarcastic quotes and sayings. Without a gun nor an imposing physical presence, my plan is to ward off attackers with a tidal wave of biting, peppery, impertinent wisecracks.

          Last night, during another search for acerbic ammunition, I was transported to the Bethel Park Junior High School. Poof! It was 1962, and I was in Mr. Lebedda’s eighth-grade American history class. He was going over the details of a paper he had just assigned.

          “How long should it be?” someone asked.

          “Well, I had a professor once who always told us, ‘Your paper should be like a woman’s skirt: long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting.’”

          The sarcastic saying on the web that took me back 57 years? “A paper should be like a mini skirt: long enough to cover everything, but short enough to keep it interesting.” Proving once again that a quality smart-ass remark stands the test of time.